


Skipping Stones

by scarlet_egg



Category: Fables - Willingham
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlet_egg/pseuds/scarlet_egg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of ficlets. My ship might be showing a bit, oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hungry

_Bzzzzzzzz_

 

 

The sound caught the great and mighty frog prince by surprise -- which in _itself_ was shocking, being that he was always aware and _always_ alert.

 

 

Well, you know, _almost_ always -- there was _maybe_ a few seconds there when, lost in his own thoughts, singing terribly under his breath and prancing from one side of the room to the other, where mopping the floor was more like a clumsy dance than a chore it was _conceivable_ \-- though _not_ likely -- that he _might_ not have been paying complete and utter attention to his surroundings.

 

 

 

 

Anyone walking past would have just seen lazy chaos, but that was okay -- _he_ knew the last thing he was was lazy! (Well, _almost_ the last thing...) No matter how dumb he might be, you didn't need to be a _genius_ to know that looking Bigby Wolf in the face and uttering

 

 

_Nope, not done yet, maybe tomorrow??_

 

 

wasn't exactly a shining example of self-preservation, and was _definitely_ worth at least faking a work ethic. Yes, no matter what was asked of him, by the end of the day, his tasks _would_ be completed.

 

 

Just because he wasn't 100% _entirely_ all-the-time positive that the wolf didn't have a taste for French cuisine -- or something. (What? No-one said he had to be unshaven _and_ uncultured, did they? Frogs legs were a delicacy!)

 

 

Case in point: the prince was _already_ on the last section of this floor, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain (that may or may not actually be part of the overall design) when he heard the sound the interrupted his thoughts. It struck him like a hot poker and he yelped, jumped, and felt the mop slip through his fingers. His head was, at that every moment, snapping around to pinpoint the source of the noise. Too late he remembered what he was _meant_ to be doing and snatched for the mop, trying to catch it before it hit the ground.

 

 

He failed on all accounts -- but he did it _spectacularly_ , so that was something to be proud of. It came as no great surprise to him and he just offered a sheepish wave to those staring in, silently accusing him, bending to pick up the stick from the new puddle he'd managed to create.

 

 

Just his imagination, he decided, when the room was silent except for his own cacophony. That's the only thing it _could_ be -- the room was empty aside from him. Time to go a-mop'in!

 

 

_BzzzzbzzzzZZzz_

 

 

His hands clenched around the mop handle hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and the prince stood up straight so sharply he could pretty much heard the crack as he broke the speed of sound. He stared hard at the wall, cataloging the imperfections in the paint, and definitely _not_ glancing at the flicker in his peripheral vision.

 

 

"Nope," he croaked out, trying to sound tough and in control, but only sounding a bit bewildered. "Nuh-uh -- not _this_ time."

 

 

_Bzzzzz_ insisted the insect, with a shocking lack of regard for his self-control. It began flying straight into the window, like it thought it could just flit right through the glass -- against his will his neck creaked around and he just stared at it, flicking his gaze towards the open window an inch away from it, and back to the fly. There was a look of slack-jawed disbelief on his face.

 

 

_thump-thump-bzzZZzzz-thump-bzzzzz_

 

 

He found he was licking his lips, and bit his tongue -- _hard_. The sharp sting brought tears to his eyes and slammed him roughly back into reality; the prince shook himself, like a dog drying itself after a swim, and took breath. He spun around, turning his back on the tempting, innocent, _delicious_ \--

 

 

See? He _could_ exercise self-control -- and it wasn't even that hard! That'd show _them_!

 

 

Which explained why he was now looming over the panicked fly, still holding the mop, his breathing low and shallow.

 

 

Wait -- no, _shit_.

 

 

The frog prince groaned loudly and slapped his hands over his face in despair, cracking the handle of the mop against the window so hard that he actually _forgot_ his plight for a second. He yelped and jumped again, squeezing his eyes shut, positive he _must_ have broken the glass with that. He peeked through his fingers a second later, unable to help himself, but there was nothing to be afraid of -- the window was unharmed, and the fly was --

 

 

\--now lying there on the windowsill, _stunned_ by his mind-blowingly accurate blow, legs twitching slightly in the breeze.

 

 

He took a step back.

 

 

" _No_!" he insisted, and turned away. The door into the room was still closed and the corridor blissfully empty of sightseers -- small favours, but at least no-one would hear him reciting phrases from that self-help book he _definitely_ didn't own. "I am the master of my own destiny, and you have no sway over my actions!"

 

 

He stepped forward. His lip trembled with the effort of denying every fiber of his being, all of which were screaming that he was making a mistake. Reluctantly, he stopped.

 

 

Aw, _stuff_ it.

 

 

The frog prince spun back, leapt to the windowsill, and flicked out his tongue -- all in one, smooth motion. He didn't pause to savour the taste, or even chew; he swallowed the fly in one hard gulp, wings tickling his throat, and let out a long snort of relief.

 

 

Then, belatedly, he froze -- he waited for the roar as _someone_ revealed they had seen his little slip, for the inevitable hammer to come crashing down. There would be _more_ community service dropping in his lap any second now (not so bad) and _more_ growls from Bigby (much, _much_ worse) -- and for what? For just doing what came naturally! It wasn't even a big _deal_!!

 

 

But nothing happened. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and was startled to find he was alone.

 

 

_No-one_ had seen _anything?_

 

 

The prince let out a sigh of relief, experimentally -- and waited some more, tensed, for the _belated_ axe to come swinging down. When it didn't, he crept back to the bucket and dipped his trusty mop into the water, swirling it around. He began to sing once more, softly at first, gaze darting back and forth for intruders. Slowly his voice raised, gaining more enthusiasm, until he was jumping about and attacking the task with gusto.

 

 

He warbled terribly -- off-key and out of beat. No-one took any notice. This comforted him.

 

 

But -- just every now and again, no matter _how_ hard he fought not to -- he couldn't help but flick his gaze at the open window, and sigh under his breath.

 

 

_Good times._

 

 


	2. Indication

Snow glowered at Bigby. She pretended she wasn't -- no no, _she_ was just sitting there, eyeing him placidly with her hands folded primly on top of her desk, and definitely _not_ acknowledging his muddy boots mere inches away from her fingertips -- but she couldn't fool _him_. He raised a brow in silent challenge, sucking away on one of those bloody _awful_ cigars he was so fond of, and grinned a little.

 

"Something _wrong_ , princess?" he drawled finally, when her jaw was starting to ache from being clenched so tight -- and by the twinge to his tone, he wasn't exactly using the title out of deference.

 

"You're a _beast_ ," she shot back, icily. He raised his other eyebrow, grinned smugly, and considered making a witty retort.

 

"My mistake," he said instead, and remained just how he was. Snow sighed, and her brow creased.

 

"Remove your feet, Bigby," she ordered, bluntly. "I'm not putting up with your attitude just because you're _nervous_."

 

The temperature in the room dropped significantly.

 

"What makes you think I'm _worried_?" he demanded, and sucked hard on his cigar. His feet stayed right on her desk.

 

"It's _obvious_ ," Snow needled, satisfied with the reaction.

 

"And just _how_ do you figure that?"

 

She let the moment of silence stretch out, but he wasn't about to back down so easily. Well, neither was _she_.

 

"You're _smoking_ ," Snow informed him, sharply and leaned back in her chair with the expression of someone who had just dropped _The Hard Truth_.

 

Bigby blinked. He blinked again. He blinked a third time, but nothing in front of him changed.

 

"I _always_ smoke," he snapped suddenly, not appreciating the games, and blew a lungful in her direction to prove his point. She waved a manicured hand in front of her face to disperse it, her expression not wavering.

 

"Do you?" Snow smiled, far too sweetly for the circumstances. "I wouldn't know about _that_ \-- all I know is you are _forever_ smoking around _me_."

 

"Yep," he agreed, and tilted the cigar in her direction; a silent toast to her simply _amazing_ detective skills.

 

"Indeed," she agreed, reasonably.

 

It took a second for it to click -- and he only figured it out _that_ fast because of her slowly creeping eyebrow.

 

"You’re wrong." Bigby sat up suddenly, boots thumping against the floor as he jabbed the cigar in her direction again -- this time in fury. "You do _not_ make me nervous!"

 

"Of _course_ not, Bigby."  How could someone be so infuriating when they were _agreeing_ with him? "That's _definitely not_ why you refuse to obey _any_ of my instructions."

 

Bigby scowled, followed her gaze when it flicked to his feet now on the floor, and glared.

 

"It's not!" he insisted. "Smoking does _not_ mean I'm nervous!"

 

Snow smiled, said nothing. She wasn't going to argue when she had already won.

 

Bigby grunted and slouched in his chair, reaching out to stub out his cigar on the edge of her desk -- just _accidentally_ missing the ash tray. Her lips pressed into a hard line, but she didn't say a word.

 

He lit a new one.

 

Gradually, in the ensuing silence, his gaze drifted back towards the phone. It continued to just sit there, not ringing in any way -- and it wasn't long before Snow's eyes slid back there too.

 

They very carefully didn't look at each other.

 

Waiting wasn't how _either_ of them had planned to spend the evening, but best laid plans and all that.

 

It wasn't much of a consolation.

 

Bigby grunted expressively -- though just what exactly he was expressing was mostly unpleasant, and not at all suitable to repeat in delicate company -- and thumped one boot up on the desk as he shifted position. Snow sighed heavily.

 

" ** _Bigby_** ," she stated, sharply. " _Remove_ your foot from my desk."

 

He thought about it. There was a very clear unspoken addition. He grinned.

 

"Have you considered saying _please_ , princess?"

 

Oh -- if only looks could _kill_.


	3. Keepsake

She stands on the fringe of the party, all elegance and poise, with her dress clinging to her hips and flaring about her feet; her eyes move with casual ease back and forth across the room, not restless so much as curious, as if she definitely isn't waiting for anything or anyone. He smiles at that -- not outwardly, of course, but _metaphorically_ \-- because it's been so long, he'd almost forgotten Snow White was still royalty.

 

The other guests have all relaxed, this late in the evening. They stand in pairs and in groups, chatting amongst themselves and laughing, but _she_ remains alone. No-one has approached her since he arrived, and he'd bet good money on the fact no-one had bothered to try it _before_.

 

He stubs the remains of cigar out in the potted plant he's standing behind -- not that he's _lurking_ , it was just already here when he arrived -- and runs a hand through his hair. Should he straight his tie? He risks a glance down, pats at his shirt, and grunts. Yeah, straightening his tie wasn't going to help.

 

He does it anyway. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, waits a moment, and stalks into the open.

 

Her scent slaps him like a cold fish to the face, and there's an almost painful tang at the back of his tongue; it's a memory more than anything, but even if he hadn't been able to _see_ her, he couldn't have missed her. He knew this for sure.

 

He'd already tried.

 

Snow glances up at his approach, and takes in his disheveled appearance with a single glance. He considers feeling self-conscious about her scrutiny, decides she's seen him looking worse, and gives _her_ a once-over in revenge. It should have made him feel better, but it doesn't -- probably because she wears the dress a hell of a lot better than _he_ ever could.

 

His mouth is suddenly dry; he doesn't know how to greet her. She is blissfully unaware.

 

" _Bigby_ ," she sighs, in something close to relief, and the world starts again. He breathes out and her scent stops suffocating him, he remembers who he is and why he's there, and --

 

\-- and thank _fuck_ for that. Gods alone knew what would have happened if she hadn't said something first.

 

He might have even _embarrassed_ himself.


	4. Malady

"Beauty, my dear?"

 

The words were hesitant and reverent, the tone soft and intrusive, but that didn't matter -- she wasn't about to fall for _that_ this time. She set her jaw and ignored the voice, focusing on nothing but making sure her lipstick was applied in smooth, even strokes. It required a steady hand to achieve perfection, and _hers_ wasn't about to start shaking.

 

Almost exactly a minute later, and a head poked around the bedroom door -- _Right on cue,_ she thought, irked. Her husband gazed at her back, meekly toweling his hair dry.

 

"Love?" he tried again, reluctant to press the issue. "Beauty, are you -- _mad_ at me?"

 

"No," his wife snapped, and placed the lipstick down on the vanity. Next to apply was the mascara; she didn't even deign to glance at his image in the mirror, and his skin all but hung with icicles from the cold shoulder.

 

"Are you sure?" he enquired, very cautiously.

 

"Why _would_ I be?" she demanded, and he realized how neatly he had blundered into _that_ one. Rather than speak and dig the hole deeper, he just his hands drop -- and the towel with them.

 

Two horns peeked from his forehead, the skin still faintly red with the sudden intrusion. Beauty's gaze flicked to them in the mirror, but her expression remained unchanged.

 

"Fancy _that_ ," she uttered, and continued on with her routine, not so much as missing a beat. The Beast sighed, tilting his head.

 

" _Dearest_ ," he pleaded, but it fell in deaf ears the way it always did. If _he_ didn't already know what he had done wrong then _she_ wasn't going to waste her breath on telling him, as he should _know_ by now. Eventually he sighed and retreated, closing the door gently in his wake.

 

His submission should have improved her mood, but it did no such thing. He could act as meek and contrite as he liked, and it would still mean _nothing_ \-- _he_ wasn't the one who had half-fallen in the toilet, in the dead of night, because _she_ couldn't be bothered putting the seat back down, _was_ he?

 

Beauty scowled at her flawless reflection and flung the mascara away, hearing it clatter sharply against the wood. It made her feel better, but only _slightly_. (She retrieved it a second later, of course, returning it to its proper place, but the gesture had been _made_.)

 

The cold water where water had no right being was a fresh memory, and it was _not_ one she intended to relive -- and if this meant letting her beloved suffer a bit, then so be it.  Maybe _next_ time he wouldn't be as careless, hm?

 

And for that matter, maybe _next_ time he'd bother to even realize what he'd done wrong. What an ass!


	5. Obituary

Bigby was a simple man, but that was far from the same as being _stupid_ \-- as soon as he got close enough to realize it was Rose and Snow arguing on the street, he stopped. He leaned against the nearest wall, gazed up at the clouds floating by in the blue, and puffed away on his cigar thoughtfully.

 

Normally they had the good graces -- normally Snow had the _forethought_ \-- to contain their arguments inside the town hall, but sometimes the tension spilled out onto the street. He wished that was a metaphor, but more often than not, it wasn't. It seemed like the only ones who hadn't realized this shit had to come to a head soon was _them_.

 

He pulled his cigar away and eyed it, just for something to do.

 

He was too far away to hear what was going on -- he did have _some_ concept of privacy -- but he would have put good money on the issue being Red snapped when Snow told her to do something. That's pretty much how it _always_ went, so maybe it was a lazy bet, but if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and sounds like a duck, right? It was safe to assume that when The Final Argument happened it would be Red initiating it, too, while Snow stood there and wondered just _where_ she had gone wrong raising such a wayward sister.

 

He risked a glance to the side. Rose was still waving her arms around, probably snarling obscenities, while Snow wasn't making a peep. Her arms were crossed over her chest, though, and he looked away again, feigning ignorance.

 

Hey, fancy that! Did that cloud look like a unicorn popping out of a waffle, or was it just him? The _wonders_ you could see in the world these days!

 

Then Snow must have _said_ something because Red was gone, still waving her arms over her shoulders as she stormed off -- in the opposite direction of him, more through good luck than good management, he suspected. Snow shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose -- in defeat? frustration? _he_ wasn't about to make a guess -- before looking up and around, belatedly concerned who might have been watching.

 

Bigby carried on smoking casually, watching the sky. When he risked another glance, Snow was gone. He toyed with the idea she hadn't seen him, but he doubted it -- the street was deserted of Mundys, so unless she was _blind_...

 

His cigar had burned down to the filter so he eyed it, eyed the hall, eyed the sky, and flicked the butt into the gutter. He lit a new one, and breathed in deep.

 

It tasted like _freedom_.

 

Yeah, it was a foregone conclusion that one day there was going to be some _serious_ bloodshed, and it really wasn't going to be pretty.

 

But it sure as fuck wasn't going to be _his_ blood. Never let it be said that Bigby Wolf was _stupid_.


	6. Reminisce

If there was a more impressive abode in Fabletown than his own, Bluebeard had yet to hear about it; to be fair he hadn't exactly _looked_ , but he was smugly confident that if there _was_ one, he would know. It's not the kind of thing you kept close to your chest, when the only thing you had left was your status.

 

Even if someone _had_ managed to amass wealth, it wouldn't be like his. Here, locked away from the poor and the needy, he was surrounded by understated luxury and tasteful opulence -- he could relive the days back in the Homelands, no interruptions and no shame, simply wallowing in his eternal victory over all hurdles big and small.

 

The trick was, he thought, to be willing to sacrifice _everything_... except for what _you_ wanted.

 

Yes, he knew that the other Fables were convinced in their own delusion that the only thing separating his life from theirs was _wealth_ , and they were definitely entertaining in their ignorance, if nothing else. It didn't really matter -- wealth bred power, and power was the only currency that _really_ mattered. No matter if they despised him, there wasn't a Fable in town that would hesitate to greedily accept whatever scraps he deigned to throw from his table.

 

And there was none who would dare _deny_ him.

 

So it came as no surprise that when he invited the _delightful_ Rose Red to share his company, she arrived with an eager sashay of her hips, and fluttering lashes over a coy smile. It pleased him that she knew exactly what he wanted and was more than willing -- she would require some _training_ ,but such were the sacrifices one must make, he supposed.

 

It was true that as he sat behind his desk, a dragon basking over its vast hoard, Bluebeard needed for nothing -- but that didn't mean he didn't _want_. It was one thing to mull over past successes and a life now exchanged for something just as grand, but there _was_ a line between reminiscing and being _stuck_. The latter, generally, meant that things weren't _fun_ anymore.

 

And that was the thing they _really_ hated about him, more than his insufferable smirk and more than his arrogance.

  
Bluebeard never had to stop having _fun_.


	7. Translocate

As far as Bigby was concerned it was bad enough that he had been woken up. It was even _worse_ to then discover he had passed out in the ratty chair, plopped in front of the tv which was now _insisting_ he really, really needed this new device that would cut lettuce just _so_ much more efficiently and tidier than a common _knife_. The fact he'd managed to burn a new hole in his boxers with the falling ash of his cigar came as no surprise at all, considering.

 

But the _real_ problem -- the salt rubbed deep in the wound -- was that the thumping just _wouldn't stop_.

 

He groaned, ran a hand down his face, and seriously considered just going back to sleep anyway. It didn't seem like it would be that hard.

 

"Open up, Bigby! I'm not going anywhere!"

 

" _Shit_ ," he muttered, and shoved himself out of the chair. His legs were still wobbly from sleep and he stumbled, irritated enough by the invasion and his own incompetence that he didn't so much as peek through the peephole before flinging the door open.

 

The pig stared at Bigby. Bigby stared at the pig.

 

"Get lost," he growled, and the half dozen beers he'd so _valiantly_ ingested to improve his mood suddenly weren't doing much at all. He tried to slam the door to emphasize his point, but a trotter blocked it with a strangled squeal -- his choices were to either open it again, or shear the foot off.

 

Bigby still took a second to contemplate it, before grudgingly easing the pressure.

 

"Love the look," remarked Colin, giving him a critical once-over -- old crumbs scattered over an older shirt, unkempt hair and an... _obvious_ lack of pants. Not especially fear-inspiring, really.

 

"And aren't _you_ just pretty as a picture," Bigby shot back, unscathed by the observation. He was pretty sure it was too early in the morning for this shit, but it might have just been too late at night, and he didn't want to say anything and get into an argument about semantics. "What do you _want_?"

 

"I need to--"

 

" _No_ ," the wolf interrupted, cutting him off. He slammed the door a second time -- trotter or no trotter, there were _limits_ to his patience -- but Colin bolted, ramming half his torso through the gap before it got that far. It kicked the air out of him with a _whoosh_ , and he glowered up at Bigby.

 

"You _owe_ me," he lamented, through choked gasps. "You _destroyed_ my house--"

 

"Oh _Christ_ ," groaned Bigby, covering his hand with one face. The other still held the door, halting further entry.

 

"--were a _heartless monster_ ," wailed the pig. "All those times you just went and _fu_ \--"

 

"Fine!" growled Bigby, as a light flickered on down the hall. He glared at the corridor, willing it to remain empty, and yanked the door open. Colin shuffled in, taking his time and favouring his terribly wounded foot, as if there was no danger of being caught at all. "Just tonight, then you're _gone_."

 

"Why? Afraid of the _law_?" sniggered his former almost-dinner, peering around the dim lounge. It looked just the same as it had the last time he'd showed up, so there wasn't much to remark on. He didn't pretend there was.

 

"Afraid of the _paperwork_ ," grumbled the wolf, not surprised when it was drowned out by loud grunting. He looked over and watched in morbid fascination as Colin clambered up onto the couch, with great effort and a lot of kicking, then collapsed along the length with a sound like a deflating balloon. " _Christ_ ," Bigby repeated, with great feeling, and turned away.

 

He was too tired, and he didn't care. He didn't even want to _know_.

 

"No goodnight kiss?" called his housemate mournfully -- and he could hear the grunts of amusement even through the slammed door, like that was the greatest joke of all time.

 

Shit, Bigby brooded. He _knew_ there was a reason why he never opened the door.


	8. Understanding

"I need it," Bigby informed her.

 

"You can't have it," answered Snow, reasonably.

 

"I _need_ it," he repeated, with an edge to his tone.

 

"I don't know what you expect me to say." The deputy mayor spread her hands helplessly, indicating that though they were _very_ pretty hands, they contained no funds for requests such as these. "It's just not in the budget."

 

They were the very picture of a civil discussion. Bigby might be many things, but painfully polite was not one of them.

 

He scowled and sucked viciously on his cigar, but it had no apparent effect on Snow -- she didn't cower, holding his gaze evenly. She wasn't even _tense_.

 

He changed tactics.

 

"You're always going on about the community," he declared, jabbing his cigar in her general direction. "It would be _good_ for the community."

 

"So would free dental," Snow agreed instantly, and half-way arched a brow in challenge -- _Next idea_?

 

Bigby scowled harder and fell silent, brooding. She waited ever so patiently.

 

"This is going to _seriously_ impede my ability to do the job _you_ hired me to do," he grunted, taking another huff. There wasn't enough left for _smoke_ to be an accurate adjective, but he sure did his best. "I want you to _remember_ that, princess."

 

Snow White steepled her fingers in front of her.

 

"Your concerns have been duly noted," she assured him, in a tone that was not at _all_ amused. That would be terribly unprofessional, of course. "But I'm afraid the budget still doesn't allow for such... _frivolities._ "

 

"Frivolities...!" Bigby began, anger flashing across his face as he started to rise from the chair.

 

" _Frivolities_ ," Snow agreed warningly, not hesitating to cut him off.

 

Bigby glared. Snow glowered. It was easy to see who had been practicing.

 

He growled suddenly, standing upright and shoving his hands in his pockets. Muttered curses followed him as he stalked out, pausing only to flick the cigar end through the air -- it landed in the potted plant at her door, just before it slammed behind him. Snow sighed heavily at this, but didn't deign his tantrum with a parting remark.

 

When she sure the door wasn't opening again -- _really_ sure -- though, Snow sighed and slumped back in her chair, closing her eyes. It was true they didn't have the money for unnecessary expenses -- Fabletown was _always_ on a tight budget, no-one could deny that, but you would have to be a fool to think that was her reason for refusing the request.

 

Bigby might be many things, but a fool was _not_ one of them.

 

Maybe _next_ time he didn't want to run out of pens, he would quit _chewing_ on them like they were dime store milk bones. He went through more in a week than she went through in a _month_! She really wasn't sure how else he was going to _learn_.

 

And she very pointedly pretended not to notice that her pen -- the fancy silver one she had been _using_ when he stalked in -- was no longer on her desk, because acknowledging _that_ would imply she hadn't won.

 

Bigby might be many things indeed, but he was _not_ going to be the better of her. Not even over _this_.


	9. Zwitterion

The wolf remembers, even when Bigby doesn't.

 

It remembers the rending of flesh and the warmth of spilt blood; the thrill of the hunt and the taste of the kill. It remembers soft earth under its paws, cold mist in its fur, and hot sun against its back. It remembers the rumble of a triumphant howl, echoing between the trees.

 

Bigby remembers stubbing his toe on a chair as he stumbles, trying to pull his pants on, and the _splurt_ of an empty shampoo bottle. He remembers the stench of milk, sour two days early, and the taste of day-old Chinese stuck on the bottom of the box. He remembers -- even when he wants to forget -- that he has a _job_ to do.

 

The wolf remembers dominion and power and fear; it remembers being king of the world. Bigby remembers _himself_ , just in time to stop his fist smashing into the smug face sneering down at him.

 

The wolf did what it wanted, when it wanted -- and it still _does_ when he sleeps, tossing and turning as he kicks the blankets from the bed, baring his fangs at imaginary goes. Bigby has no time for selfishness; he has rules to follow, laws to obey and obligations to fulfill.

 

It is still so easy to slip back into the wolf, Bigby finds -- but why _shouldn't_ it be? The wolf is what he _is_ , and the man only a skin he wears; he's little more than a child playing dress-up, and they all know it. There's a reason why his office is so small, locked so far away from the other Fables, and why he's given such a long leash to hang himself with.

 

He used to wonder -- why was he even _there_? He knew why he had accepted the offer, but why had she ever _made_ it? He found it hard to believe it was because she _honestly_ thought he had a chance for redemption; it seemed more likely she saw a use for him, in a war that may never arrive.

 

Except she never _acted_ like that was her motive, and it frustrated him that he couldn't be certain.

 

In the end it didn't even matter. There was only one thing Bigby and the wolf could agree on; one thing they had no doubts and no illusions about.

 

_Her_.

 

Even as the wolf padded through the forest, hunting ghosts, it remembered her; when Bigby prowled the halls, sullen and furious, _he_ remembered her. It was always her -- because _she_ was the reason they were there now, with him in the suit and it banished to the dark.

 

It didn't matter what it wanted or what he didn't; whether they liked it or not, they _needed_ her.

 

If for no other reason, Bigby often brooded, than because she reminded him why he _shouldn't_ be the wolf anymore.


End file.
